


Steeped

by unsettled



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: Angst, Five Times, Fluff, M/M, Madness, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always six o'clock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steeped

_ "And ever since that," the Hatter went on in mournful tone, "he wo'n't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now."  
A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked.  
"Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "It's always tea time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles."  
"Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice  
"Exactly so," said the Hatter, "as the things get used up."_  
\- Alice in Wonderland

 

6 o'clock

_The Hatter's tea parties were famous – or maybe infamous – but whatever they were, they were legend to Ilosovic, just as the Mad Hatter himself was. He was…well, he was amazing. There were really no other words for it. He was unlike anyone Ilosovic had ever met, and every time he walked into a room, Ilosovic felt himself grow clumsy, dull, and awkward. Awkward. He sighed. That's how he felt. He should be having the time of his life! Who cared what the reason might be, he had been invited to one of Hightopp's parties! Which meant, he discovered quickly, that people more beautiful, witty, and elegant than he had ever seen before now surrounded him on all sides. He'd never felt more out of place, crammed into a chair that was just shy of actually fitting all his angles. He hardly dared to move or touch anything, for fear he might wreck havoc. If only he could think of something clever to say! _

_"What do you think?" He barely managed to stop himself from jumping (and no doubt upsetting the table), but he still gasped at the Hatter's sudden appearance. _

_"I, I…I don't know quite what to think," he stammered, and oh, damn, he could feel his cheeks heating. "But I'm having a fine time."_

_"You don't look it," the hatter smiled. Surely he couldn't get any redder! "Everyone gets overwhelmed the first time," he continues. He plucks a tart from one of the many dishes. "Try one. They're my favorite," he exclaims, and then drifts away, onto the next guest_

_Ilosovic stares after him._

*

6 o'clock

Ilosovic leaned back into the comfort of his chair, smiling as Tarrant earnestly debated the merits of brown versus white bread with Haigha. Oh, it was endlessly amusing to watch Tarrant run circles around everyone else and tie them up neatly in verbal knots. He sipped his tea (blackberry), stared down the length of the filled table (scones, petifours, crumpets, muffins, biscuits, and of course, ahem, tarts) as examined the animated faces crowding round it (king, queen, knight, pages, hares and rabbits, even (he sneered) knaves). He was trying to concentrate on something other than the narrow hand curled round his under the table.

If anyone ever noticed that Tarrant used only his left hand and Ilosovic only his right, they were clever enough not to comment.

Tarrant's thumb traced continuous interlocking circles into Ilosovic's palm, and Ilosovic couldn't help the flush that colored his face at the thought of what they were sure to get up to later…long after the tea party.

He sipped his tea again, his hand not quite trembling with anticipation.

*

6 o'clock

Ilosovic steps out of the forest, and really, he shouldn't be surprised that this is the first place Tarrant runs to. He's sitting in Ilosovic's chair, knees drawn up, still singed and dirty from the day before, one finger idly tracing the edge of a tea cup.

"Tarrant," he says, but Tarrant doesn't even look up. "Tarrant!"

Ilosovic crouches down, falling to his knees beside the hatter. Tarrant's eyes are very dark, laced with orange, and although they're staring down the length of the table, Ilosovic has a feeling he's seeing another time entirely. "Tarrant," he says again. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but you have to leave now. They'll be coming for you, and eventually they'll think to look here. You need to go." The finger continues its endless path, and he reaches out and catches Tarrant's hand, stilling the movement. "Tarrant, please. Please say _something."_

There is nothing but silence and stillness, and after a moment, Ilosovic releases Tarrant's wrist and rises to his feet. "Tarrant," he whispers. He closes his eyes, turns; walks away.   
Behind him, the hatter dips his finger in cold tea. The sound of humming glass follows Ilosovic out of the clearing.

*

6 o'clock

It's a rather dismal gathering that Tarrant has put together, and Ilosovic thinks it's rather sad that even Tarrant's queen has deserted him. Maybe he doesn't mind; maybe he doesn't even notice. Whatever is lurking behind those eyes is a far cry from the Tarrant he knew. He hones his words, flings them at Tarrant; wondering if any of them will break through the madness. Something does; he wishes he knew what. Tarrant conducts his tattered guests, and Ilosovic should find it fitting, should find it funny, that Tarrant's been reduced to this, but all he can summon up is something akin to pity. This is nothing more than a pale, frantic imitation of _their_ tea parties, and he thinks that underneath the haze of poison, Tarrant knows this.

He flings his teacup down, and a small part of him still flinches when it shatters.

*

6 o'clock

He almost didn't expect it to still be here, but the long table is visible in the gloom, just the way it always was, plates throwing back the pale light of the moon. He weaves his way over to a chair, Tarrant's chair, and it doesn't matter that it's too small for him. It creaks and for a horrible moment Ilosovic thinks it might fall apart. But it holds together, for one more night at least. The tipped cup calls to him and he reaches for it, the shackle on his wrist hitting the table with a dull thunk. He freezes; the sight of it brings all kinds of memories rising from the depths, better left buried. He closes his eyes, and for a moment, he is elsewhere, summer breeze stirring his hair, staring down a table filled with bright things and pretty beings; the deep quiet of the woods warmed with the muted sounds of conversation, the bright tang of laughter. His lips curve in a smile.

His eyes open, and the bright vision overlays the table before him for a heartbeat before it fades. The food is molded, the plates half covered with leaves and debris, cobwebs taking over the teapots, and cracks mar the cups.

He'd thought to make it a memorial, but now he can see it's already gone the way of its creator. _Tarrant,_ his mind whispers, but all he can taste is ashes.


End file.
